


Drop Dead

by parseltonquinq



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But it's not violent, M/M, Mentions of Blood, also a scene in which sherlock is killing somebody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7407373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parseltonquinq/pseuds/parseltonquinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Jim are two halves of a criminal, serial killing duo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drop Dead

Jim carefully slid off the trainers, letting the body float away once he’d retrieved his trophies. He pulled a plastic bag from his back pocket and unraveled it before placing the shoes inside and knotting it. His heart leapt when he heard a rustle behind him. 

Whirling around to face the source of the noise, his eyes widened upon seeing a lanky boy with curly black hair and icy blue eyes. The boy looked to be about Jim’s age, though he was wearing a crisp black trench coat and rather than appearing shocked or disturbed by the scene before him, he had a straight face and seemed more curious than anything. 

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, or, rather, demanded. 

“I could ask the same of you.” The boy slowly walked forward, his shoes clicking against the tile of the indoor pool. The boy’s eyes scanned the building, as if he were stopping by for a swim rather than happening upon a murder scene. 

Jim straightened his spine and pulled his shoulders back, an effort to avoid having to look up at the boy, who was a couple of inches taller. He wondered why he wasn’t panicking—he _had_ just been caught committing murder. He watched the boy carefully, frantically trying to figure out how to proceed—stupidly, he hadn’t considered the possibility of being caught. 

“Should’ve used a gun,” the boy said, stopping to stand beside Jim and look analytically at the floating body of Carl Powers, cocking his head to the side and chewing on the inside of one cheek. “Or perhaps poison.” He glanced at Jim’s sleeves. “Then you wouldn’t need to explain why your shirt reeks of chlorine.” 

“Who _are_ you?” Jim asked, bewildered. 

“The poor boy you’ve just roped into being an accomplice to murder,” he said wryly, though his eyes were sparkling. “You can call me Sherlock.” 

“Alright,” Jim said slowly, attempting to discern just what was going on in Sherlock’s mind. “Why aren’t you calling the police?” 

Sherlock shrugged and nonchalantly tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. “The police are imbeciles—they refuse to take advice from an eleven-year-old despite the fact that my IQ is significantly higher than that of any man on the force.” He smirked. “That, and this is _much_ more interesting.” 

Jim’s blood went cold in the most delicious way. 

* * *

“Would you stop pacing?” Jim drawled, not looking up over the top of the newspaper. “We’re fine.” 

“I _know_ we’re fine,” Sherlock snapped irritably. “As _if_ anyone could catch us,” he scoffed. Jim heard the clack of his shoes resume their long strides before the wall of windows. “I’m just bored.” 

Jim let the newspaper fall into his lap as he leaned heavily against the armrest of the chair he was sprawled in. Sherlock’s back was straight and his chin was tucked down, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Jim had always thought the only word that did Sherlock’s appearance justice was ‘striking.’ His sharp cheekbones cast shadows across his jaw. 

“I believe that’s called bloodthirst, darling,” Jim said dryly. 

“Nonsense,” Sherlock stopped to lean his shoulder against one of the large windows, tucking his hands into his trousers. His clever eyes scanned the street below. “There’s just not been anything stimulating as of late. Everything’s been so _easy_. I want a challenge.” 

Jim raised his brows. He hummed softly. “How intact are your morals?” 

Icy eyes snapped to him so quickly that Jim had to wonder if Sherlock had powdered his nose. “You’re implying there are any morals to _be_ intact.” 

The corners of Jim’s mouth quirked upward. “I’d like to think they’re there, faint or not. You do have a sense of loyalty, haven’t you?” He didn’t give Sherlock time to respond. Jim stood and let the newspaper drop onto the chair, now forgotten. “Do you know what would look lovely above our fireplace?” 

Sherlock raised a brow. “If you say Mycroft’s head…” 

Jim chuckled. “It _would_ , but that’s not what I was thinking of.” He slowly walked over to Sherlock, mimicking the other man’s posture. He leaned against the other side of the window and watched the steady flow of pedestrians on the street below. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him, waiting. 

“The Crown Jewels.” 

Not a muscle moved in Sherlock’s face. He studied Jim, attempting to discern whether he was being serious or not. Eventually, Sherlock snorted softly, then let a slow smile curve his mouth. He pushed off the window and walked over to a velvet loveseat, stepping over the back and draping himself across it. 

“I’ve decided who I want next,” he announced, as if Jim hadn’t already proposed a new project. 

“And who might that be?” Jim humored him. 

“Lestrade.”

Jim smirked. He understood instantly why Sherlock had chosen the inspector. He was agreeing to Jim’s project whilst simultaneously proposing one to keep him occupied. “Clever.” 

“He’s not so much new prey as a stepping stone,” Sherlock said. “We’ll distract Scotland Yard.” 

“I knew I kept you around for a reason.” 

* * *

Jim watched, entranced, as Sherlock was unleashed. 

This was always his favorite part of the hunt—watching Sherlock come alive, watching that dark _thing_ inside him claw its way to the surface and transform him. Sherlock’s brilliant eyes were so, so cold and he was focused upon Lestrade with an almost inhuman intensity. He looked like death. He never looked more alive. 

Nobody else had seen Sherlock like this and survived. 

It was Sherlock’s turn to play god. Jim had captured Lestrade and brought him to the abandoned house, as it had been his turn to do the killing last time. He had practically handed the inspector to Sherlock on a silver platter. As much fun as it was when it was his turn to do the killing, Jim thought it was just as fascinating, just as rewarding, to watch Sherlock do what he was _born_ to do. 

When Sherlock killed, he used knives. Personally, Jim preferred water, but Sherlock was partial to blades. Sherlock liked seeing the blood, liked seeing his reflection in it, liked rubbing it between his fingers, liked smelling it. Jim just liked the way the blood looked on Sherlock’s hands, glistening. 

Jim supposed he simply liked Sherlock’s hands in general: the way they looked when Sherlock was manipulating his violin, the way they felt in Jim’s hair, the way they looked while twirling knives between his fingers, the way they looked when they were extinguishing a life. They were versatile and beautiful and would have been wasted just clutching a pen or typing away at a keyboard for the rest of Sherlock’s life. 

Jim watched Sherlock’s usually composed face twist; an angel morphing into a demon. He was lounging in an armchair in the house, fixated upon the scene before him. The chair was the only piece of furniture in the room not covered by a tarp. 

He had prepared the house in advance, knowing how much Sherlock loved blood. In return, Sherlock always tried to bring Jim’s victims to places with either pools, ponds, lakes, or, if he was desperate, bathtubs. 

When Jim heard the screams come to a halt with a violent, then quiet gurgle, he smiled. He was that much closer to the Crown Jewels. 

* * *

“Which crown would you like, darling?” Jim asked, giddy, shining his flashlight upon the crowns in the cases. 

“That one,” Sherlock said, grinning, pointing to the Imperial State Crown. 

Jim smiled, slow and pleased. “I think I’ll have _this_ one,” he said, gesturing to St. Edward’s Crown. He pulled out his phone and grinned at Sherlock. “Do you trust your hacking capabilities?” 

Sherlock scoffed. “Considering they’re a bank, their security systems are a breeze to get through. Do you trust _your_ capabilities?” 

“There will be a lot of inmates who owe me,” Jim smirked. 

All it took was two taps and they were in. Jim slid his phone back into his pocket and picked up his battering ram. Sherlock picked up his own, then with a nod, they broke the cases at the same time. Alarms instantly blared and Jim laughed manically. _They’d done it._

Letting the battering ram drop to the floor, Jim tenderly picked up the crown and placed it atop his head. A smile spread across his face as he turned to Sherlock only to find that the other man was already wearing a crown and wielding a sceptre. 

“We’re unstoppable,” Sherlock murmured, grinning and spreading his arms wide. 

Jim grabbed his own sceptre, then looped his arm around Sherlock’s neck, high on adrenaline. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?” 

* * *

Jim lounged on their velvet loveseat, eyes half shut and hands folded neatly on his stomach, listening to the violin melody drifting through their house. Sherlock was standing beside the window, his favorite spot, his fingers dancing over the strings and gracefully directing his bow. His mouth was curled at the corners and his face was devoid of its usual lines of concentration. 

He was beautiful. 

The fallout from the theft of the Crown Jewels, the mass escape at Pentonville Prison, the opening of the vault at The Bank of England, and the murder of Inspector Greg Lestrade were still wreaking chaos throughout the country. Throughout the _globe_. Jim and Sherlock knew they wouldn’t be caught—the police hadn’t even caught a _whiff_ of them. Mycroft suspected their involvement, of course, but he wouldn’t say anything, as he put protecting Sherlock above all else despite his disapproval. 

Amidst the chaos, however, was calculation—this was where he and Sherlock reigned. 


End file.
